


The People We Are Together

by ClumsyChicken



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gem Fusion, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt, Injury, Mutual Pining, Other, POV First Person, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 15:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4527654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClumsyChicken/pseuds/ClumsyChicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You need a partner whom you trust with your light. Literally.</p>
<p>The premise of the fic is that mages are able to perform gem fusion a la Steven Universe!<br/>Gender-neutral pronouns for Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enticement

Pain shoots through their left foot. They let out a quick yelp, like a dog who’s been slapped by a displeased cat. He lets go of them immediately and awkwardly shifts his foot off of theirs.

   ”Sorry! Sorry,” he says and takes a few steps away from them, forcing them to let go of his coat in the process.

   ”Sheesh, Anders,” they mumble and balance on one leg to massage their toes though their slip-ons, while he buries his fingers in his long locks. ”One would think you and the elegant mage I see on the battlefield are completely different people.”

   ”Well, I suppose this just isn’t as intuitive to me. Nor anywhere near as practised,” he says, while a faint hint of fuchsia spreads all the way from his cheekbones to the top of his ears.

   ”You don’t say. Perhaps it’d help if you took those things off,” they say and point a nonchalant finger at his heavy leather boots. ”Instead, you could go nigh barefoot. Like me.” They put their foot down with a stomp.

   ”You and I both know that likely wouldn’t help,” he says and picks at his fingernails.

   ”You’re just saying that because you love them so much that you sleep in them,” they say with a light voice and cross their arms. His lips curl into a crooked smile.

   ”That I can’t deny.” With a sigh they shift their weight onto a single leg and stare at said footwear.

   ”What is it that we’re doing wrong?” they mumble. ”What did you do differently the first time?” His smile fades away immediately.

   ”We’ve been over this, Hawke.” Slowly they wander towards the nearest window. The sun is getting lower on the bright blue backdrop. Soon sconces and candles will have to be lit to maintain any visibility.

   ”I know,” they say and sigh as they gaze out onto the late bustling of Hightown below them. ”I just can’t help but wonder why we can’t replicate it. Fusion is a different process for everyone, we know that much, but that doesn’t explain why this is so—” They place their hands on the cold stone windowsill. ”Troublesome for the two of us.” Audibly he shuffles towards them, until there’s only a meter or so between the two of them.

   ”It was a different situation then. Honestly, it’s no wonder that the process differs greatly from when I did it with ’The Hero of Ferelden’.” They don’t need to see him to sense him raising his brows at the mention of his old friend’s grandiose title. ”They were a completely different person, and… as am I,” he says, his tone of voice lowering noticeably with the last sentence. Their stomach tightens as though someone wrapped a belt around it, and they chew on their lower lip. With a sharp inhalation, they compose themself and reach their hand out towards him. He regards it with wide eyes.

   ”Come on, then. There’s only one way to find out how we can make up for those differences,” they say with as bright a tone as they can manage. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabs their hand with sweaty palms, handling it like the most delicate porcelain. They can’t tell if his facial expression is a smile or a wince.

 

*

 

Rubbing their left little toe religiously, they exhale to relieve the heavy feeling residing in their chest. Combined with the sight of the cover of an entertaining novel on the table in front of them, it does manage to alleviate a sliver of tension. After taking one last look at their bruised toes, only letting their gaze linger on his stiff, bare feet for a moment, they open the hardcover where they left the last dog-ear. Propping it up on the table, they catch sight of his staring just above the cover. His movements seem to have petrified, and his lips are resting in a pout around the rim of his mug. The two maintain eye contact for a few seconds, before he finally takes the sip. His stubble audibly brushes against the edge of the mug as he puts it down, and the wrinkled skin around his eyes reveals how big his controlled smile has the potential to be.

   ”Do you like it?” he asks, as he looks down at the arcane tome sprawled out in front of him with raised eyebrows. Tracing a finger down the page, they attempt to spot exactly where they left off while butterflies take flight in their stomach.

   ”Yes. It’s just the right mix of action, drama, and utter agony. Why? Do you?” they say. He shrugs and attempts to find a place for his hand. After meandering through his hair, onto his neck, and onto the side of the table, it ends up supporting his jaw.

   ”Sort of. Kind of,” he chimes. They shake their head furiously and jab a finger at him.

   ”Don’t you dare spoil anything,” they say, putting emphasis on every single word. He throws his hands up in front of him.

   ”Wouldn’t dream of it. You’re almost done, right?” he says, nodding towards the book.

   ”Two pages left.” He grimaces and pulls his shoulders up to his ears.

   ”Shouldn’t keep you waiting, then.” They look back at the pages. While they try to focus on reading, they feel his gaze on them, examining their every minute expression. Usually he turns into something of a pretzel while he reads, but he’s unnaturally still while their eyes dance over the letters. Eventually they manage to shut out the sensory deprivation and stimulation of intuition. Word by word, their heart sinks. What feels like a pyre replaces the last remaining heaviness in their stomach. With the last sentence, ’And she lived happily ever after’, they let the book drop onto the table with a heavy thump. A wrinkle forms on their nose while they stare it down. His hands are tightly clutched around the mug.

   ”By Andraste’s tits, what was that?” they say, their voice starting in a whisper and ending in a much higher pitch.

   ”I know!” he exclaims, slamming his palms on the table.

   ”How did those last pages derail the whole bloody narrative?” they squeal and flail their arms.

   ”It’s ridiculous, those two were meant for each other,” he says and shakes his head like a disappointed parent.

   ”Exactly! It’s been teased and hinted at through the entire story, it’s not even remotely subtle.”

   ”Not at all.”

   ”She and Alexandra helped each other out constantly. They were the main vehicles for each other’s development, damn it. It would only make sense that they became an item, even if it was only implied or something.”

   ”Yes, exactly! They shared more than enough intimate moments, and Alexandra never stopped flirting with her. At least that’s how I read it. It seems more than a little bit obvious to me. But no, instead that blighted fool Renaud proposes, as if it makes any sense for either character,” he growls, as if he was talking about a particularly vile politician.

   ”And they only had a single romantic scene together, which didn’t even have any chemistry!”

   ”None whatsoever.”

   ”And of course she just has to accept. After everything she and Alexandra fought for, all the barriers they broke together.”

   ”It’s as if the author dangled a cookie in front of our noses and then yanked it away at the last second.” Hawke groans and grabs their hair.

   ”They should’ve devoured the cookie when they had the chance,” they say, and he chuckles lightly.

   ”That would’ve been wise.”

   ”Who wrote this shite?” They turn the book around to see its cover and remind themself. ”Well, whoever this M. Deforest is, he deserves to be—to be—” They squeeze their brain for the words.

   ”Dipped in mabari piss,” Anders chimes in, and a loud laugh escapes their lips.

   ”Yes! And tossed in the deep roads. Where an angry ogre will force him to write nothing but darkspawn porn and take care of the gross kids because everyone else is too busy jacking off to his drivel,” they declare and pretend to slam their fist on the table. He leans his head back, laughing the most genuine laugh they've heard from him in weeks, and grabs their wrist. They feel as though they could float, and they can’t help but laugh along with him. The butterflies once again reign supreme.

   ”That’s what you get for not following through on your own narrative,” he says through breathless snickering. At that moment, it feels as though soft electricity runs between them. Heat spreads from hand to hand. Hawke's entire body tingles. A soft, white glow that emanates from the two of them lights up the whole room, outshining the candles. Slowly Hawke lifts their gaze to meet his. His eyes look wet in the bright light, but he shares their nug-in-the-torchlight expression. Judging by his rosy face, he feels just as thrilled as they do.

   Just as they open their fist to take his hand in theirs, he swiftly retracts it. His smile fades, and he covers his mouth with his hand. Frantically he picks up his mug and his book and gets up from his seat.

   ”Sorry,” he mumbles. Not offering them a single look, he slinks away with his head bowed and disappears into one of the darker corridors. The white light disappears with him.

   The heavy feeling in their chest nails them to their seat. As a cool feeling runs down their spine, their gaze drops to the floor. By the chair opposite them, a pair of heavy leather boots lean against the table leg.


	2. Synchronize

   "That looks familiar," they say and tilt their head to get a better look at the less than savoury book cover.

   "Oh really? I didn't think you were into this sort of thing, Hawke," Isabela says and nips at her thumbnail with a crooked smile.

   "Oh, you think so little of me, Bela," they say with an exaggerated pout. "Come on, indulge me." With the tiniest of sighs, she traces a finger across the cover as if it were a lover's hand.

   "Well, it's this saucy little romance story. Though it's not very romantic, really. It's mostly smut, you see," she says, putting her hand in front of her mouth at an angle, as if she was whispering. She never once lowers her voice.

   "It's about forbidden love between an elf and a human noble, from an apparently prolific author. Lots of erotica on his backlist. And I have to say, this M. Deforest really does know how to—" A groan escapes Hawke's lips before they have a chance to catch it. Isabela immediately raises her brows and pouts.

   "I think that's a new record for how quickly you've gotten bored, Hawke," she says, a slight sting to her tone. They sigh deeply and shrug.

   "Sorry, Bela. That author just got on my shit-list last night. He can't follow through on his own narratives," they say, imitating Isabela's pseudo-whisper. She puts her fingers to her lips with wide eyes.

   "Oh my! Good thing I'm not Varric, then," she says, pats them on the shoulder, licks her thumb and flips the pages, continuing where she left off. Just when Hawke is about to retort with a particularly cheeky quip, they spot The Hanged Man's front door opening behind the other side of the bar. Their stomach ties itself into little knots and their lips squeeze together the instant they see the feather-covered shoulders edge through the door. The knots tighten painfully when they notice Isabela taking in their expression with narrowed eyes. She swiftly turns to follow their gaze.

   Anders strides towards the two of them with a dauntingly neutral expression. As he gets closer, Hawke notices that the dark lines underneath his eyes are much more pronounced than usual. Several thick tufts of hair stick out from his ponytail and the rest of his locks don't seem to have been combed since yesterday evening.

   "I've prepared everything we'll need for the trip, Hawke. So we're ready to go, unless you say otherwise. Or somebody else says otherwise, of course," he says, his voice a mere mumble by the last sentence.

   "No, I think you’re all we were waiting for. I mean, Aveline is _always_ ready to move out," Isabela says before Hawke gets around to opening their mouth.

   "Oh," Anders says, flashing a small smile that doesn't even remotely reach his eyes. "Well, then we're all set. Meet at the usual spot?" he suggests, and both of them nod, Hawke far more frantically than Isabela. As he motions to leave, he catches sight of Isabela's book cover as well. A wrinkle creeps up the bridge of his nose.

   "Really, Isabela?" he says, like a disgruntled father who just caught his daughter stealing his erotic poetry. She slams the book onto the table and crosses her arms indignantly.

   "Seriously? You too?" she growls.

   "It just... doesn't really deliver in the end. If you know what I mean," he says, makes the turn, and heads for the door. After watching the door shut and letting out a sizeable sigh that might as well have been a groan, Isabela turns towards them with a piercing gaze.

   "Trouble in paradise?" she asks with a gentler tone than Hawke braced for. They shrug with a tight-lipped smile and get up, leave a few coins in the empty tip jar on the counter, and swagger towards the door.

   "I'll go get Aveline."

 

*

 

   "This wasn't exactly in the job description," Aveline groans. It barely registers in Hawke's mind, as they do a headcount. At least 13 visible slavers. More than half of them melee combatants. Positions visualize in their head. Each hit flows into the next. Aveline would charge there, while Isabela flanks them with a flip. Gathered right were they want the slavers, Hawke would hit at least the majority of them with an ice spell. Tucked away behind them, Anders would provide constant healing and back-up. They were going to need it.

   "Well, at least the element of surprise is on our side. We've handled worse," Hawke mumbles. An entirely different possibility presents itself in their mind. A force of nature that could turn the tide of battle from the very beginning. They slide their hand towards Anders, carefully wrapping their fingers around his wrist. He twitches at the touch.

   "We were almost there last night," they say with the gentlest tone they can manage. Isabela immediately snorts and covers her mouth. Anders' eyes widen.

   "What?" he says breathlessly. Hawke scoots closer to him and grabs his wrist with both hands.

   "I know we were there, we both felt it. It was so close, if we had just—" They squeeze his wrist tightly. "Let ourselves. If we can do it again, if we can rediscover that feeling, we could turn these odds around." A smile spreads across Hawke's face. "Big time. Imagine the looks on their faces when—" The smile immediately fades when Anders looks at them like a rueful puppy.

   "Hawke," he says, the word feeling like a wall between them. He doesn't follow up until Aveline opens her mouth.

   "Are we—"

   "Fusion isn't something to just use carelessly," he continues, and her lips squeeze into a thin, pink line. "It's trust, and understanding, and... not doing it just for the heck of it." An inhalation ricochets through their body.

   "Yes, exactly," they say, as though they were soothing an upset child. "This isn't just for the heck of it, this is a situation that we aren't, well, a total absolute one hundred percent prepared for. And we could make a difference and protect everyone! Us, together. With our light," they say, while their chest tightens with every word.

   "Wow, did you practise that one?" Isabela cuts in with a single raised brow. An open-mouthed smile creeps onto Anders' face.

   "What were your thoughts on that book she was reading, again?" they ask with the tone of exaggerated forgetfulness.

   "Hawke, please," he says, nursing the small smile with his gaze trained on the ground. Hawke gingerly pulls them both to their feet. They take a couple of steps away from the log the small team is hiding behind.

   "This isn't—" Aveline says, but Hawke decides to speak at the exact same time.

   "We can do this," they insist and put their hands on his feathery shoulders. "Believe in yourself. And me. That helps." With a sharp inhalation through flared nostrils, they grab his upper arms, shift his balance, and tuck him into their arms. With his cooperation it would have been a dance move. A sting shoots through their stomach, when Anders' wide eyes harden. For a fraction of a second, a flash of vivid blue light engulfs his iris and pupil.

   "Hawke!" he exclaims and wrestles his way out of their grasp.

   "Incoming!" The force of a bronto rams their shoulder, landing them face-first in the sandy earth below them. Arrows bounce off metal like tiny bells.

   "Sorry," they whisper with Aveline's face inches from theirs.

   "There goes the element," Isabela moans, squished up against the side of the massive log. While Anders scurries back towards the log like a scared cat, Aveline drags Hawke in the same direction by the collar. Her shield is like a barricade between them and the assailants.

   "No more shenanigans, Hawke," she barks. Hawke quickly brushes the sand off of their face and pulls their staff out of its small sheath on their back.

   "Spell time?" they ask.

   "Definitely," she replies. She charges shield-first, Isabela leaps over the log, and Anders glows intensely while Hawke flings a fireball towards the nearest group of armed foes.

 

*

 

Hawke had wondered why the Tevinter mage shot a spirit bolt into the dull grey sky. They figured the mage had panicked. They've been in a similar situation more times than they'd like to admit. When an arrow lashes past their cheekbone, it dawns on them that the reality of the situation is far graver. They duck their head and turn around with a hand on their cheek. Its mild burn is overwhelmed by the cold sweat running down their back. As they take in the full number of troops rushing across the beach, every single hair on their neck stands on end. Feet slipping on the sand, they dash towards their comrades a dozen meters away. Their hand migrates down to the corner of their mouth to amplify their voice.

   "Reinforcements—" they shout, before their breath stalls. A new flame bursts forth from their shoulder. Aveline is first to react. Her eyes widen and she grits her teeth. Hawke's pace slows. They grab their shoulder, muscles twisting like wood being bent to splinters. It's not deep, but the arrow stays in their body. Aveline sets off towards them like a pouncing tiger. That's when the second arrow hits. Their paused breath is shoved out of their throat. Despite even the tiniest muscles in their body being tensed, their knees give out. The pain in their shoulder seems like a mere ember in comparison. A shriek rips through the cliff-side. As Hawke grabs their side, they realize that they usually only hear that shriek right before Justice gets involved.

   "Isabela!" Aveline commands, while Isabela herself provides the next sentence.

   "Already on it." Swift like a bird of prey, she dashes ahead, and a small bang makes their ears twitch. Hawke can clearly smell the sulfur on top of the bile in their throat. They grimace and hold their breath when Aveline picks them up like a human log. They bounce in her grasp with each step, every muscle in their torso contracting. A cool, tingling aura materializes over their wounds. They don't have to look up to know who's providing it.

   "Work fast, Anders. We'll hold them off, but we're not a brick wall," Aveline says, gently putting Hawke on the ground in a sitting position. A blond haystack enters their peripheral vision.

   "Hawke?" he says, his tone soaked in anxiety. Words won't form on their tongue, so their reply becomes a groan.

   "Oh, Maker," he whispers. The cold feeling intensifies. "Try to relax." Clashing steel behind them makes that an impossibility. A harsh sting in their shoulder almost has them keel over once more. Anders lets out a trembling sigh.

   "It didn't do its characters justice," he mumbles. Apparently it isn't impossible for Hawke's brows to be squeezed together even tighter.

   "The book," Anders adds, as though sensing their every movement. "It was always silly and, well, kind of trashy, but the characters were sympathetic. They carried the barely existent story." Part of the tension in their body leaves with their breath. "But then he just had to introduce this arbitrary plot device."

   "Uh-oh," Hawke groans.

   "Yeah." Another sting, this time in their side. "The story took over, when there was nothing to work with. It could've ended earlier, but instead the chemistry took a backseat to some prophecy tale."

   "Wasn't it—" They grit their teeth. "Supposed to be a romance story?"

   "So to speak. But I guess Deforest just didn't think it was enough. Kind of like drowning a soup in salt just so your guests taste _something_." Hawke exhales awkwardly instead of laughing.

   "So I guess he just dropped the shaker in the one I read," they mumble. They can't tell if Anders laughs once or if he sobs. A few long seconds pass before the energy to speak and knowing what to say align again.

   "I can recommend you something good," they murmur. Vibrations from another little explosion quiver beneath them.

   "Shit," Anders whispers. "Yeah?"

   "Yeah. This speculative thing about if the elves hadn't been driven from Arlathan."

   "Oh. I read that," he says.

   "Nice," they whisper, before losing their balance and toppling forwards. Their short plummet towards the ground is stopped short by Anders' arm.

   "I've got you," he says. With those words, warm electricity bounces between them. They aren't sure if he notices the soft glow illuminating the pale ground below them.

   "What did you like about it?" they ask. It prickles down their spine and all the way out into the tips of their fingers.

   "The universe was fantastic," he whispers. The flames seem to have been doused. Nothing but the ashes remain. Instead, a new beacon rests within them.

   "And the main character kind of reminded me of you."

   "Oh."

 

 

Hand on my side, I stand up against the cliff-side. My legs shake like those of a newborn deer testing its balance. Certain that no blood leaks from me, I push myself away from the rough cliffs. My feet carry me as surely as the eons old earth they stand on. My every breath is as deep as the ocean and just as calm. I take in my new point of view. Twice the amount of eyes yield an expansive point of view at this height.

   Like a lighthouse casting its bright light on the water, I slowly turn my gaze towards the murmurs. The enemy's advance has halted. All eyes are on me. Despite her arms being caked in blood, Isabela gives in to the smile pulling at her lips. Even Aveline has beads of sweat running down her temple. Taking a deep inhalation, as refreshing as snowmelt, I stride towards them. Arrows shoot towards me, bowstrings whirling in their wake, and I raise my hands. Through my clawed gauntlets, my fingers bend the light around me. I spread out the shield that would have normally covered only my own form and it becomes a dome of light around us.

   "My apologies, I'll have to have a chat with these ladies for a moment. Hope you don't mind," I say and wave at the dozen confused slavers outside as if they were decently affable suitors. Flowing towards Isabela, I feel the energies of the earth below me. Turning my palms upwards like a flower seeking sunlight, bright azure surrounds her. She lets go of her arm and looks up at me with the widest eyes I've seen on her in ages.

   "You know... I can rarely claim to be lost for words, but there it is," she says breathlessly.

   "Oh, you charmer," I drawl and wiggle my fingers at her dismissively. Behind me, Aveline clears her throat.

   "Do you know who we are?" she asks, an uncertain edge to her voice. I take one look at her and the skin around my eyes crinkles.

   "But of course! Who wouldn't know of the great and daring Ser Aveline?" I say, pretending to flex my biceps. Her nostrils flare, and she presses her lips together.

   "Maker, it really is them," she growls.

   "In the flesh," I say and put my weight on one leg. "So, anyone got a plan? Other than 'attack'." At this point, the melee warriors have already tried prodding the barrier with their swords. They leave most of the work to the archers, while a couple of mages in the back quarrel with one another. The instant I begin to visualize our positions, it’s as if an ice-cold finger runs down my spine. Something itches at the back of my mind, like a spider crawling inside my skull, and my insides quiver. A sharp inhalation stills both for the moment.

   "That all depends. What kind of back-up can you provide?" Aveline asks, readjusting her grip on her shield.

   "I wouldn’t call it just back-up," I say, the urge get started tingling at my fingertips. "For starters, I'll be keeping you two safe." In perfect harmony with my breathing, the cool glow pulsates from my body like gentle snowfall. The mages are closing in on their warriors with fury in every step. We aren't the only ones who need to strategize.

   "I suggest I'll take care of the warriors. Not to mention those arrows," Aveline says, turning towards the crowd with her chin lowered.

   "Then I'll ensure that they never get on your back," I say, which prompts a glare from her. "You know. Crowd control."

   "Right."

   "And I will make sure they stay down for good," Isabela adds, stretching her upper body like a satisfied cats.

   "There's a good girl," I say. Energy surges through my body and pools in my hands, as if lava was coursing through my veins.

   "Are you ready?" I ask, stretching my fingers.

   "Ready."

   "Oh yes. Payback time." Outside our bubble, the warriors have formed a barrier with their weapons and shields, like oxen protecting their young. With a flick of my wrist, the arcanebarrier fades into thin air. Flames sprout from my hands. I put my foot down and bend the roused energy to my will. The warriors brace, but they're too late. My fireball connects with their feet. The resulting explosion forces me to take a wobbly step back. It's nearly twice its usual size. Their screams surface as the boom subsides. Arrowheads cut through the resulting smokescreen. The cold fingers dig into my spine, and the itch becomes a whisper, echoing off the cliff-side. I duck down with a gasp. Covering my head with my arms, I dodge most of the arrows. When two of them bounce off of my forearms, stings of adrenaline pierce my stomach. It wasn't my gauntlets that stopped their flight. The sound would have been metallic. Jerking my hands towards my torso, I notice the outline around them. It's as faint as a spider's web in twilight. A reflection of my forearms envelops them like an aura.

   "Sorry! You're taller than usual," Aveline barks in front of me, and I look up at her just in time to see her rush into the fray. Sparks whirr between my fingers. While Isabela stabs at the pace of lightning, I throw my own bolt into the mix from my crouched position. Heat and suits of armour don't mix well. The warriors fry from within, intensifying the overwhelming stench of charred meat. My lips are already sticking together. While another wave of arrows hails from the sky, a bright purple bolt bounces off the cliffs. Its angle is perfectly calculated for my position. Between it and me stands Isabela. She dashes to the side, but it catches her arm, bumping the missile into the sand. Aveline hops in front of her as the arrows land, but most of her shield only covers Isabela. I see them graze both her leg and shoulder, and the whisper amplifies. Someone might as well be standing over me, speaking directly to me. It's impossibly loud and yet unintelligible at the same time.

   Iron knots form in my stomach as I rise to my feet. My blue glow engulfs both of my team-mates as I stride past them. The warriors cover the sand like dead fish. The archers frantically nock their arrows ahead of me. I reach out my hand towards the cliffs. My gauntlets scrape indentations into its side despite the distance between us. They pull back their bowstrings while I tear into the stone. It breaks apart like it was made of porous clay. A handful of archers realize what's happening and scurry backwards, fumbling with their bows and arrows. The rest shoot their arrows towards me. My breath stalls, as they bounce away from my face. A feral cry rips through my throat, and I hurl a stone shard the size of an ogre at them. Bones snap and skulls burst when it slams into the archers. The stragglers are thrown forwards as I kick the boulder at them from a distance. It's as easy as crushing ants with a brick. A dark blue shroud surrounds me. I don't even need to look ahead to know that it's coming from one of the mages. The world around my quivers. My spider web becomes visible around me. If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was looking out through the visor on a helm.

   "Anders! I mean—" Aveline shouts behind me. My breath stalls.

   "Hawke!" Isabela amplifies her call. Frost twirls around my fingers and I continue my stride. One mage yells something at the other, who takes off down the beach. I swiftly fling an ice shard towards her. It smashes against a bright pink barrier.

   "Face me, you monster!" the remaining mage bellows. Baring my teeth, the whisper becomes deafening. The chilling pain spreads from my spine and up through my cranium. I take off and storm towards the mage. Stepping backwards, he reaches out his hands towards me. A stone shell spreads a few centimetres in front of my eyes, obscuring my vision. I strike it with my hand and my faint aura armour crumbles it like wet sand. I close in on him. With wide eyes, flames swirl in his grasp. Just as he reaches out again, I am but a couple of meters from him. He quickly doubles back. A fight or flight decision. He only takes a few steps before I am upon him. I grab him by the collar and dig my feet into the dirt. He gags as his flight halts. I throw him on the ground. Clutching his neck, he gawks at me like I am the Dreadwolf itself.

   "Stay away!" he says, voice cracking.

   "Where are they?" I growl. He's slowly dragging his arms across the dirt, carrying himself away from me. I notice.

   "I don't know what you're talking—" I slam my hand onto his throat and lift him. He squirms like a rabbit that knows it's about to be skinned alive.

   "Your prisoners. Where are they?" My hand tightens around his fragile neck. No words escape his lips. All I hear is the whisper and his gagging. I gasp when Isabela grabs my other wrist.

   "Take it easy, guys! He can't talk like this anyway," she says, peering into my eyes. She squeezes my wrist and I let go of him. The instant I do, the pain amplifies. I resist the urge to grab my head and bend over. Aveline holds the point of her sword above his ruddy throat.

   "You heard them. Start talking," she demands. His coughs are throaty and dry. He clears his throat several times. Aveline presses the sword down.

   "Alright they—they aren't here," he says.

   "Then where are they?" she asks.

   "We already shipped them!" My heart skips a beat. "We were just wrapping up our operation here!" My brain is screaming at me. Every single bone in my body aches. A new point of view emerges. I can hardly make out what I'm seeing anymore. The final eye on my forehead views the world with blurred edges. I shove Aveline out of my way, step over him, and drop to my knees. My first blow lands like a hammer's strike. He gasps and chokes. The second spatters blood on the ground.

   "How dare you?!" the voice shrieks through my mouth. The third crumbles his cheekbone under my knuckles.

   "You are the only monster here!" Before another hit lands, Aveline and Isabela grab my upper arms and push against me with all of their strength.

   "Stop this! Right now!" Aveline commands.

   "Easy, champ! Easy!" Isabela urges.

   "Let me go!"

 

 

They hit the ground back-first. All their muscles tense, as they brace for the pain in their shoulder and side. A second or two passes before their breathing resumes. They pat their torso as if they'd lost their wallet. They burrow a finger into one of the holes in their robe, only to discover a raw mark. It's no longer a painful, bleeding hole. Instead, the wound feels several days old. Above them, Aveline's gaze meets theirs. Her eyes are uncharacteristically wide. Their heartbeat quickens many times over, and they wriggle like a stranded fish. Clumsily they manage to sit up. Isabela's hands hover over Anders' quivering back. He's sitting on his shins in foetal position, fingers dug into his scalp. The visible azure lines on his hands are throbbing.

   "Anders!" They exclaim and crawl towards him. Isabela immediately puts her palm inches from their nose and shakes her head at them.

   "You should probably give him a minute," she mumbles. His breathing is uneven and shallow, like that of someone who's in great pain. They inch towards him. Isabela takes the opportunity to get up and circle around the slaver. Tuning out Anders' ragged breath and the ringing in their ears, they realize that the slaver is no longer breathing. With a grimace, Isabela inhales through her teeth when she looks at his face. Aveline paces behind them, muttering under her breath. Her rattling armour is like a ticking clock.

   "Right. So. Nothing retrieved and someone got away. Mission failed, I suppose. Resources well-spent, team," she says, but her complaint lacks its usual punch. Anders draws in a deep breath. The lines on his skin have become indistinguishable from his veins, but he's still shaking violently. Without hesitance, they scoot to his side and throw their arms around him. Breathlessly, his muscles loosen up and he leans into their grasp. He articulates with his lips and groans, but speaks no actual words.

   "Don't. Just relax, okay?" they say with a coarse voice and hush him, pressing their lips to his shaggy hair. The knots in their stomach have never been tighter. Aveline sighs, and they feel her gaze on them. She doesn't have to say anything for them to know exactly what she thinks about this.

   "Aw, I guess we're gonna have to carry you guys home," Isabela groans with an over-the-top pout. Her expression immediately sobers when nobody as much as smiles.


	3. Reconciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a porn parody somewhere in here, but it's all in italics, so it's pretty easy to recognize if you wanna skip it!

The clinic door is ajar. A needle of worry jitters in their stomach, until the memory of Anders' rapidly muttered concerns jumps to mind. One of the patients must have left it open. Right next to the doorway sits a familiar-looking basket. Just as Varric had predicted, Anders didn't keep their gift for himself. Only crumbs are left of the abundance of breads and pastries they'd left for him yesterday. Even the colourful ribbons on the basket handle have been removed. It's only a matter of time before the basket itself departs as well.

   Peeking into the clinic, a small mountain of stained cloth immediately catches their eye. Anders is furiously scrubbing down one of the stone slabs. His hair is as messy as a haystack, and his tight-lipped expression tells Hawke all they need to know. Carefully knocking on the door frame, they step inside. He looks up at the sound like a small, frightened bird. His piercing gaze softens when it settles on Hawke's face.

   "Oh, sorry," they say with a goofy smile and a hand on their nape. With a sigh, his shoulders drop and he wipes the sweat off his brow with his forearm.

   "No, it's fine. I'd tell you to knock next time, but," he says, leaving the sentence hanging, and Hawke chuckles. A small smile creeps across Anders' face.

   "What do you need?" he asks, tossing another rag in the pile. Their breath catches in their throat and little knots immediately take the opportunity to form in their stomach.

   "Well, I'm not injured or anything like that," they say and sit down on the edge of the nearest slab, silently hoping that he'll take them up on what they cannot bring themself to express.

   "That's reassuring," he says. Hawke nods and hums affirmatively. When neither of them speak again within the next few seconds, his smile fades. Their gazes drop to the dusty floor. It's as if the knots pull on Hawke's veins throughout their body. The tension spreads up their torso and brings with it a burning heat in their cheeks. Just when they open their mouth to speak, Anders draws in a sharp breath.

   "Have you been avoiding me these past few days?" he asks, his voice far firmer than theirs would have been. Their nostrils flare.

   "That's what I was going to ask you," they say, and Anders exhales through a smile.

   "I see."

   "We need to talk," they say with a coarse voice. Anders fleetingly looks up at them, only to gaze to the side at the rest of his clinic.

   "We do," he mumbles. A sigh escapes his lips as he picks up the bundle of rags and dumps them on top of a myriad of other cloths and linens in the wicker laundry basket. With one hand on his hip and the other twirling a blond lock, he turns towards Hawke and looks them straight in the eyes. It's not a hard gaze, but rather a somber one that seems to accentuate the dark lines beneath it.

   "We could go out, if you like. You know, outside. Where we usually talk," he suggests. Immediately a sliver of tension evaporates within them.

   "Yeah, right outside Hightown?" He nods. "Of course. If you're not too exhausted," they say, nodding towards the laundry. The skin around his eyes crinkle as he approaches the basin.

   "Exhausted, yes, but not _too_ exhausted. Yet," he mumbles. "I just need to wash off and put on some cleaner clothes, then we'll go. If that's fine by you, of course." Hawke gets up to keep their gaze on him and immediately regrets doing so when their hands lose their purpose. They end up confidently on their hips, while their face is still ablaze.

   "Absolutely. Definitely," they stammer. They point at the water-filled basin when Anders cups some cool water and rubs it on his forearm. "I could help you out with that, you know." He looks at them with a single raised brow.

   "You really don't want to," he says and flashes his palm at them. The blood stains on it range from vibrant amber to deep burgundy shades.

   "I'll leave you to it, then," they say and sink back into their hard seat.

 

*

 

His coat only just manages to cover their head and shoulders. Nestling by his side, they can hear the drum of the raindrops against the thick fabric. The two of them up their pace to a jog. As soon as they duck in under the wooden awning, a waterfall pours onto the plains. They both gaze out at the lush, drenched expanse with wide eyes.

   "We'll never make it home again in one piece," Hawke says with a hint of crocodile tears in their voice. A goofy smile spreads across Anders' face, as he brushes the dew out of his plumage.

   "Oh, then I've really doomed us this time, haven't I?" he says, his remorse even more hyperbolic.

   "Alas. At least you managed to keep me dry," they say, placing their hand over their heart with a sigh. Said sigh is stopped short, when a flash lights up the gloomy sky. Like alert cats, they both observe the black clouds expectantly. The ground rumbles with the thunder that rolls in afterwards. They motion backwards, never letting their gazedrop, and sit down on the stone bench against the wall behind them. Just as Anders drops down next to them, white veins dash across the clouds, striking the earth in the distance. They look at each other as if they just witnessed the biggest scandal of the age. Another flash cuts through the heavens, lighting up Anders' hazel eyes as they gaze into them. He squeezes them shut, covers his mouth with his hand, and laughs. The smile infects Hawke as well, and they chuckle alongside them.

   "Somehow I just knew you'd like thunderstorms. You're such a geek," they say, voice hopping with their giggles. He throws his arms out to the side, looking at Hawke as though he'd just had an epiphany.

   "Are you kidding me? I mean—" He looks out at the soaked plains. "What we can do is remarkable, at the very least, but just sitting back and watching nature take the reigns, seeing what the world is truly capable of... there's nothing quite like it," he says with a breathless tone that Hawke usually only hears when people describe the curves of their lovers. They follow his gaze.

   "Yeah, I get that," they say. Energy surges in their fingertips. They calm it with a deep breath. The butterflies fluttering in their stomach are not as easily dissuaded.

   "Though, honestly, nothing beats the warmth of lighting dancing on your fingertips," they say, studying the contours of his profile. A slight jab hits their stomach when he furrows his brow.

   "You mean, your lightning is warm?" he says. Their breath pauses for a second.

   "Yes? It's not an uncomfortable, painful heat or anything like that. It's kind of like holding the hand of someone who's really, really flustered," they say and chuckle. Anders' gaze drops to the cobblestone beneath their feet.

   "Mine is so cold," he says. Hawke presses their lips together. "Both what I can summon and the..." He wiggles his wrist and digs his nails into his palm. "I think it might have changed after we merged, actually. Justice and I. I have to wonder why that is." The last sentence is barely more than a whisper. They wet their lips.

   "What was it like before?" they ask.

   "I don't remember." The words summon a wall of silence between them. Hawke studies the nooks and crannies in the darkness above them where lighter streaks struggle to peek through. The urge to speak piles up in their throat. Just as their heart starts to sink when no soothing sentences present themselves to them, they jump in their seat when he places his hand on top of theirs. They smack their other hand down on top of his, and he holds them both in his palm.

   "Listen, I—" He squints and hesitates, as though searching for a specific word on a page with a tiny font. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry about what happened. I shouldn't—I got carried away and I should have been more careful," he says, as though the words need to be dragged out of his throat. Hawke frantically shakes their head.

   "No, no, it's not your fault! It's just as much on me, I shouldn't have pushed you," they say, but he mimics their gesture.

   "I could have just told you. You don't know how to handle Justice, but I do. I shouldn't have just—" They squeeze his fingers.

   "Hey, that's not fair."

   "No, it isn't, it's not fair to you. It's like tossing you in a whirlpool when you don't even know how to swim." They grab his free hand and thus hold both of them tightly.

   "No, you listen to me," they say, raising their brows when he opens his mouth to speak again. "Please." His lips squeeze into a thin line.

   "We both got carried away, alright? I didn't consider how Justice might affect us. And you really rocked that anger thing that you've got going." He looks down at their hands. "Either way, what we did together, what we did when we became one mind, wasn't just because one of us messed up. It takes two to waltz, yeah?" they say and swallow dryly.

   "So we were both at fault, is what you're saying," he mumbles.

   "Exactly." He sighs.

   "It doesn't quite feel that way." Hawke chuckles.

   "I can assure you that it's true. It might not feel that way on your end, but... I was just busy enjoying the experience. Way too busy to even consider being careful," they explain.

   "I suppose," he whispers.

   "Don't blame yourself. I know you, I know that brain of yours is already redecorating the worry-corner, but I mean it. Really," they say, a wide smile emerging pulling at the corners of their mouth.

   "I could say the same to you," he says with a raised brow and a hint of humour in his tone.

   "Then let's spend our energy saying that to each other instead, yeah?" they conclude, and he shakes his head with a small smile. He stares at their hands, caressing Hawke's fingers with his thumb.

   "Is that what it feels like to be you?" he asks. A small sting rummages in Hawke's stomach.

   "What?" they ask, lowering their head slightly. He continues as though he never left off.

   "That confidence, the composure. Carrying yourself with a straight back and your head held high. I'd almost forgotten what that feels like," he says, gaze dancing over their fingers. "I think it felt how you usually look." It feels as though a belt wraps itself around their stomach. A deep sigh through rounded lips loosens it a little.

   "Ah, I don't know how accurate that is. Fake it 'till you make it, you know?" they say, prompting Anders to furrow his brow once more.

   "I honestly doubt that's what that feeling is," they continue, butterflies fluttering wildly in their tightened stomach. "It's not really myself in that sense. I think it's more like... me, loving you. That's why it feels that way. That's what it is." His smile fades instantly and his gaze rests on them for what seems like an eternity. He lets go of their hands, places his palms on the back of their head, and kisses them. Hawke's entire body tingles with energy. They close their eyes, lean into it, and wrap their arms around his waist. His lips are chapped, but soft. He slides his fingers into their hair, and they tighten their grip around him, digging their fingers into his coat. As he gently pulls away from them, they feel his warm breath on their lips. They lean into him again, and he inhales sharply. His balance slips backwards, and he quickly moves one of his hands onto the bench to support himself. They reposition their hands further up his back and tilt their head, his nose squishing against theirs. Their heartbeat is racing in their ears and their cheeks are ablaze. Hawke grazes their tongue across his lower lip, before he places a hand on their chest. They pull back, still supporting his weight on their arms. He opens his eyes, panting through parted lips, and regards them with an intense gaze. Sighing deeply, he rests his forehead on their shoulder, and they caress his back. His tangled hair gives off a faint hint of lavender.

   Hawke furrows their brow when they notice a vacuum in the atmosphere around them. It digs at their brain for a few seconds, before they realize how quiet it's become. Over the sound of Anders' calming breaths, they can hardly hear the rain anymore. They turn their head to look out at the plains, making sure not to disturb Anders' position. The shower has reduced to a mere drizzle. Light from above is visible in small patches in the dark cover. At this point, the plains might even make for a nice promenade. Anders turns his head on their shoulder and follows their gaze.

   "Maybe we should be more prepared next time," he mumbles. A sting of excitement tingles in Hawke's stomach.

   "Next time?" they ask, a husky drawl to their voice. He looks up at them and hums affirmatively.

   "Yeah, that may be wise," they say. Immediately after, their lips curl into a smirk. "We'll need to work on a battle cry, then."

   "Oh, Maker, no," Anders chuckles.

   "What's that thing you always like to shout? Suck on a... what?"

   "Fireball?"

   "That's it." He raises his brows.

   "Hm. It's got potential, I suppose."

   "We could always ask Varric for pointers," they suggest with a shrug, and he scoffs.

   "Oh yes, and end up making everyone cringe and groan."

   "We already do that," they retort, and he laughs once.

   "So we'll just make their faces contort even harder."

   "A noble goal," they conclude, and he sits up straight just to shake his head at them.

   "Fine. I leave that monumental task to you, love," he says, an exaggerated strain to his tone.

   "Thank you," they say. They gently stroke his hair, and he twists under their touch like a pleased cat. The rain has finally reduced to mere mist, carried across the fields by the breeze.

 

*

 

   "You see what I mean, yes?" I say and lean back in my seat, while Varric looks like a piece of sela petrae got mixed in with his beloved roasted almonds.

   "Oh, why would you do this to me?" he grumbles. "You giant jerk." I flip through the pages and reach another dog ear.

   " _'Her love-bags squish against my chest. Her panting tongue hardens my meat staff.'_ " Merrill covers her mouth with her fingers. " _'It nearly snaps the laces on my pants, and I rub my hands against her meaty mounds, hard and rapid. I grab her nipple piercing with my tongue and twist it, not unlike a ship's wheel_ — _'_ " I quote, until Varric slams his hands onto the desk.

   "Stop it, you're killing me, here!" he says. Despite the severity of his words, a smile nevertheless manages to sweep across his face.

   "Even I wouldn't appreciate that," Isabela says with a single wrinkle on her nose and a shiver. Aveline nods towards her with her half-full stein.

   "Then we're really scraping the bottom of the barrel," she states, and Isabela bursts into laughter.

   "If that's the standard, definitely!"

   "How would that even work?" Fenris questions with an impressive squint.

   "It might be best not to think about it too hard," I say with a cringe.

   "It's not even physically possible." Varric nods towards Isabela.

   "I think that's why Rivaini is shuddering like a wet kitten over there." She nods vigorously and clatters her teeth, prompting a laugh from Aveline.

   "Oh, you can have my shawl, if that would help you feel better. Or just to keep you nice and snug. Or anywhere in between, really," Merrill says, stroking the colourful, home-knitted shawl.

   "Keep it, kitten. This drink will do the job just fine," she says, waving at her with a loose wrist.

   "But do you see what I mean, Varric?" I continue, casually pointing a finger at the small, burly man. "It completely degenerates near the end, despite how well it read in the beginning." He leans his head from side to side.

   "I'll give you that, it does seem to... get out of hand, let's call it that. It wasn't riveting in the beginning—" I cock a single eyebrow at him, and he firmly holds up his index. "I'm telling you honestly, it wasn't. It was decent, definitely, but not fine art."

   "I never claimed that it was," I mumble with a pout and nip at my ale. The spider scratches at the back of my mind, but a small sigh through rounded lips silences it.

   "Good, then I'd really start to worry. Decent is what it was, then it went off the rails. It happens sometimes, maybe the man had to meet a tight deadline or something, it's hard to say. Drivel nonetheless, but it's not like it's a unique occurrence."

   "Hm. That's fair," I say. "I appreciate your expert input." We smile at each other and he nonchalantly holds his arms out to the side.

   "Happy to provide it... you giant jerk. There really is something missing there. What in the world do we call this? Call you?" he asks.

   "Handsome?" I quip and stroke my chin. Fenris scoffs.

   "Incredibly annoying?" he suggests with a crooked smile.

   "That works too," I admit.

   "No, no, we need something that works as a name, as a cute little descriptor. The perfect little package, like what the rest of us have," Isabela muses.

   "Oh, you flatter me," Varric says with a hand on his hairy chest.

   "In that case, my vote definitely goes to 'incredibly annoying'," Aveline says, and she and Fenris raise their mugs to each other.

   "No, what about..." Varric says, staring at me intently, palms held out in front of him like he's waiting for his magic trick to work.

   "Handers!" Isabela says and points at me dramatically.

   "No!" Varric and I cry out in unison.

   "Why not?" she complains, like a kid whose dinner suggestion was shot down.

   "That's just my name with my H in front of it," I grumble and cross my arms.

   "I'm gonna need another refill," she mumbles, scouring the table for the rum.

   "Isn't there some name you've always thought was really pretty?" Aveline suggests. My gaze shoots to the ceiling as I search my memories. Only vague lists of names never written down come to mind. The context hits me like a slap. Before I pull myself together to put a stop to it, my cheeks are flushing.

   "Oh. I see," she says, barely containing a laugh.

   "Oh no," Fenris groans and runs a hand through his pearly locks.

   "Okay, so that's out of the question," Isabela concludes. The cogs turn for everyone in silence for a handful of seconds.

   "What about Aeron?" Merrill suggests. It settles nicely in my mind.

   "Aeron? Hm. That has potential," I say.

   "Dalish?" Fenris asks, and she shrugs.

   "Well, it was the name of my favourite halla when I was a child. She was very sweet and cute," she says.

   "Veto. I'm not naming myself after a halla. No offense," I say.

   "Oh, sorry. None taken," she says and waves her hands in front of her with a smile.

   "'Incredibly annoying' it is," Fenris concludes and chugs the rest of his beverage. I exhale sharply and smile.

   "I guess I can live with that."


End file.
